


Petals And Ink

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Hate Sex, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Rom com tropes, Slow Burn, Soft!Lascelles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29463129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: Two things make themselves abundantly clear the first time Henry Lascelles meets John Childermass.The first thing is that John Childermass is an arsehole of the highest order. A rude, insensitive, low class, obnoxious twat that Henry loathes from almost the moment he first exchanges words with him.The second thing is that the man is incredibly attractive.
Relationships: John Childermass/Henry Lascelles
Comments: 7
Kudos: 5





	Petals And Ink

**Author's Note:**

> This was fun to write! 
> 
> I posted it one day late of the official Childercelles anniversary, but it wasn't ready, and I wanted to focus on the V-Day Rare Pair Fest.
> 
> Fair warning, it takes place in the Soft!Lascelles-verse, so it's really just a rom com fic. I hope you enjoy
> 
> It was not beta read

Two things make themselves abundantly clear the first time Henry Lascelles meets John Childermass. 

The first thing is that John Childermass is an arsehole of the highest order. A rude, insensitive, low class, obnoxious twat that Henry loathes from almost the moment he first exchanges words with him.

The second thing is that the man is incredibly attractive.

Henry of course hates the second thing, because of the first thing. It’s far easier to build up a healthy dislike for someone when you don’t catch yourself idly fantasizing about pushing them down on a bed and sucking their cock. 

He doesn’t let John Childermass know this of course. The part about him wanting to shag the man silly. The other part, about hating him, he makes very clear. 

“Must you put your bins that close to the dividing line between our properties?” he demands on the first day that they meet. “The smell is driving my customers away.” He wrinkles his nose in order to further drive home his point.

John Childermass squints at him as if he’s speaking some foreign language and shrugs. “That’s where the bins go,” he says, sounding infuriatingly calm and reasonable. 

“Well, can’t you simply put them somewhere else?” Henry is getting a bit worked up over this brief but heated exchange. At least, it’s heated on _his_ side. Childermass seems unperturbed, and that makes Henry seethe. 

“Nowhere else to put them,” the man says in his heavy Yorkshire accent. “There’s just the spot for cars to park, the walkway and that little patch of grass. Sorry mate. That’s where they go.” 

There isn’t the slightest note of contrition to his voice, and Henry feels his face go hot. It doesn’t help matters that Childermass’ hair is down and tumbling across his shoulders in dark waves, or that he has a small silver stud in one ear in the shape of a tiny skull. It isn’t helping that his faded, ripped jeans are hugging his hips and legs in that way that makes Henry struggle to keep his eyes on the man’s face. 

Not that his face is a safer place to put one’s eyes. He looks half Inuit and half Spanish. But paler than either. As if the features, and the lustrous black hair made it through the genetic hedge maze of his DNA, but had decided to leave the melanin behind. 

He’s stunning and exciting and Henry fucking hates him. 

He throws his hands up in the air and whirls around to head back inside his shop. Under his breath, he mutters “wanker”, just loud enough for Childermass to hear him.

His anger abates a bit when he’s standing in the flower shop. Shelves and shelves of plants surround him, green and pastel and bright and lovely, their smell fragrant and reassuring. Serenity descends, and pushes thoughts of John Bloody Wanker Childermass from his mind. 

Ten minutes later, he feels much better. He has a wedding coming up two weeks from now, and a busy week of deliveries and regular customers to look forward to. Plenty to occupy him. No cause to go stirring up drama where he shouldn’t be.

So of course he ends up shagging the arsehole. 

It’s a surprise to both of them really. After a few months of scowling at Childermass, scolding Childermass, passive aggressively trying to one up Childermass, he goes out to get drunk with Justina and Carmen at that flash new gay bar on Compton. He’s knocked a few too many back, and ends up trying to kick, then stumbling into, then falling on top of, Childermass’ stupid fucking trash bins. 

The resulting yelp of surprise from Henry, and the sound of two large trash bins toppling over, alerts Childermass to his fatal social faux pas. The man comes rushing out, and seeing Henry, with a scraped knee and ripped shirt, helps him to get back to his feet. At which point, Henry does not at all purposefully stumble against and knock into Childermass, pushing their bodies quite close together. The resulting explosion of pheromones and hormones and bodily warmth causes Henry to go into an alcohol fueled, randy, have-not-gotten-sex-since-last-Christmas craze, and he sort of just attacks John Childermass with his mouth.

He’s pleasantly surprised when, after a split second of surprised inaction, Childermass reciprocates immediately and _very_ enthusiastically. Seems all the griping and dirty looks they’ve been doing had them both turned on and keyed up. They stumble madly for Childermass’ bedroom (atop his tattoo parlor), and stand by the bed in a frantic bundle of gripping hands and sucking mouths and thrusting hips. 

Henry is so aroused that he’s unable to stop the frankly mortifying sounds coming from his mouth. He curses repeatedly and rather repetitively as Childermass sucks what will probably be an obvious mark into the side of his neck and ruts against him. Compared to Henry, Childermass is downright stealth. Doesn’t make a lot of noise, other than some rather pronounced breathing. 

They’re rubbing each other over their trousers and kissing with a sort of enthusiasm that borders on open aggression. It feels beyond good. Wild and hot and … _hot_. It’s rather hot. Henry puts his hands on Childermass’ shoulders and presses him quite firmly to his knees, whereupon Childermass rips open Henry’s belt and zip and has him in his mouth so fast, all Henry can do is gasp. 

Henry winds his fingers in Childermass ridiculous hair and hangs on for dear life while his soul is very nearly sucked out of his body. “Jesus fucking Christ!” He yells that a bit too loud he thinks, but can’t bring himself to care.

Childermass gets him off with fantastic skill and startling efficiency. He doesn’t think he’s ever come nearly that fast and that hard with a first time sexual experience in his entire life. 

As soon as he’s regained his sanity and ability to move autonomously again, and Childermass has stumbled back to his feet, he makes quick work of Childermass’ belt buck and forcefully shoves his jeans halfway down his pale thighs. Childermass’ black boxers are pulled down along with the jeans, and his cock, thick and dark pink stands temptingly at attention. 

“Sit on the bed,” Henry says, because he gets bossy when he’s really turned on. “I want to ride you.”

“Oh fuck.” It’s the first thing Childermass has said since this whole thing started, and it’s an apt statement. 

Childermass sits down, scooting his arse back a ways on the bed to make room for Henry’s knees, and Henry climbs into his lap and straddles him. Using some cheap, sticky lube from Childermass’ bedside table, Childermass works him open with two thick fingers while they kiss madly and Henry makes still more noises he hopes are never spoken of again outside of this bedroom. 

Soon he’s ready enough and lines himself up with the head of Childermass’ cock and slowly sinks it home. He wraps his arms around Childermass’ neck and rides him, with deliberate, steady rolls of his hips. Childermass’ hands are all over him and he feels so goddamn good, and Henry gets hard again like it’s nothing. Like he’s not 42 years old. 

He knows how to make it last, and he does. Rides Childermass slowly and thoroughly and ceaselessly until Childermass is thrusting up from below and cursing along with Henry. Henry takes himself in hand near the end, jerks himself a few more times as he feels Childermass tighten and gasp beneath him. Henry follows him over, cursing against the soft mess of Childermass’ hair.

Afterward, Childermass looks as stunned as Henry feels. It’s an abrupt return to reality, and they’re sweaty and messy and Lascelles at least is still somewhat drunk. They haven’t used a condom, and that’s unlike Henry, who’s normally fastidious about sexual health. He feels an instant stab of embarrassment and regret.

He has to awkwardly dismount from Childermass, find and put on his pants and trousers, all while leaking Childermass’ semen uncomfortably down his thighs, before making his way a bit unsteadily to the stairs and down. He stumbles out onto the pavement, and ten steps over to the property where his flower shop and his modest flat above it is located, right next door. He doesn’t say goodbye. Childermass hadn’t spoken either. Seems this was exactly what Henry assumed it would be. A relief of tension. 

He showers, puts on some tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt and crawls into bed to sleep it off. 

He thinks that’s that, but a week later, it happens again. 

This time, Childermass visits the shop. He uses some daft excuse about getting flowers for his sister, and saunters around, looking at Henry’s wares, while Henry panics silently and tries not to stare at the other man’s arse. Childermass asks a bunch of stupid questions about flowers, and Henry wastes no time in correcting him in as pedantic and condescending tone as he possibly can. 

This leads Childermass to say, “Just because you lowered yourself to fuck me and you feel off about it is no excuse to be a twat.” 

Which leads _Henry_ to say, “ _Did_ we have a shag? I’ve forgotten. Must not have been very memorable.” 

Which leads Childermass to glare at Henry with his coal dark eyes, and this in turn makes Henry’s cheeks go hot. They stand and stare at one another for a few agonizing seconds, and then they’re crushed against each other and kissing, rough and urgent. Henry supposes this is a _thing_ they’ve started, this hate-sex thing. 

He loves it. And he hates it. He’s almost certain hating it is why he loves it and vice versa.

“Where’s your bedroom?” Childermass mumbles against Henry’s lips while he works his hands up under Henry’s shirt to stroke his stomach. 

“Upstairs, same as yours,” Henry replies, and pulls Childermass in that direction. They end up in a lovely 69, Henry sucking away enthusiastically at Childermass’ cock while Childermass sucks his, a race to see who can get who off first and hardest. Turns out they both win. Henry comes with a gagging sobbing noise around Childermass’ cock, and that is apparently what does it for Childermass, who releases in Henry’s mouth a moment later, making muffled groaning noises further up the bed. 

Once Henry has collected his senses, he sits up, still half dressed and wipes a hand across his mouth to clear away the drool (he gets messy when a blow job gets him really excited). He sits cross legged and looks at Childermass, who’s lounging like some sated lion across the bed, trousers half-off, panting. 

“You’ll remember that one I think,” he says with a slow, filthy grin, and Henry bristles instantly. 

“I was simply overdue for a shag, that’s all,” he sniffs, attempting to look down his nose at Childermass. A feat easily accomplished, seeing as the other man is splayed out before him like an oil painting of some renaissance woman. 

“I’m sure you were,” Childermass says, and the implication, that Henry doesn’t get sex all that often (he hasn’t been) is clear in his tone. 

“Why do you have to be such a wanker all the time?” Henry asks.

“I’d ask the same of you,” Childermass replies, rolling off the bed and pulling up his jeans. His back is to Henry and Henry cannot help but let his eyes play over the man’s shoulders and waist beneath his faded t-shirt as Childermass does himself up. “Look,” Childermass continues, turning around to face Henry, who quickly whips his eyes up to the man’s face. He’s astoundingly beautiful with his mussed up hair and flushed cheeks. “You don’t like me, and I don’t like you. And we want to fuck each other. There’s nothing wrong with it. Why don’t we drop the back and forth and just shag when the mood strikes. No need to go through this act next time.” 

Childermass is playing the sensible one, making Henry out to be insensible, and it hits Henry in an off sort of way, and suddenly he’s angry again. “There isn’t going to be a _next time_ ,” he sneers, infuriated with Childermass’ calm, collected attitude and his apparent lack of emotional involvement. He’ll show Childermass which one of them is less invested. “This was fun, but I’m afraid it’s not going to work out.” 

Childermass stares at him for a moment, looking almost contemplative, then he shrugs and walks out. Henry can hear him thump his way down the stairs and hears the front door of the shop open and shut behind him. He feels suddenly sick in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps he’s taken his flash of anger a bit far. But no matter. What was he expecting from a man like John Childermass? A man covered in ink, who pokes people with a needle for a living and likely never saw the inside of a university classroom. Of course Childermass didn’t see Henry’s strop for what it was truly meant to be. An invitation to convince him otherwise. It works quite well on other men Henry’s been with. This insisting that it’s over. Always has them return for more. Perhaps Childermass is simply more literal minded than most. He’ll come around eventually though. They always do.

Only he doesn’t. 

Two weeks pass, and the only time Henry sees Childermass, it’s when they both happen to be leaving or entering their respective shops at the same time. And then, Childermass doesn’t look at Henry, doesn’t even give him a nod or a glance in acknowledgement. 

It drives Henry to distraction. 

After almost a month of being ignored, he decides it’s time to pay Childermass a visit. It’s either that or die of an unpleasant mix of burning curiosity, blunted lust and a wounded ego. He walks over to the tattoo parlor next door, takes a deep breath and walks in. 

At first he thinks Childermass isn’t there, because it’s a small space, and the shop is empty, but then he hears the metallic rattle of the tattoo machine loud and clear, coming from behind a segmented screen in the back corner. The walls are festooned with movie and band posters. Henry recognizes The Clash, The Doors, The Beatles, _Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels_ , Bob Marley, and incongruously, a poster of the Wizard of Oz. There is a long table, covered in equipment that’s mysterious and resembles tools that might be used by some sort of sadistic dentist, and Henry shivers at seeing them. _Barbaric_. He’d never get a tattoo himself, usually loathes them on other people. Childermass is the only man he’s slept with who had any. And since he left his shirt on both times, Henry’s not even sure what he’s got going on under his clothes. 

He wanders around, looking at pictures on the walls for a few moments. There are multiple photos pinned up, of happy customers, displaying their shiny new tattoos for the camera. Phoenixes and unicorns and barbed wire and abstract designs. Some are frightfully gouche, but others aren’t bad. There’s a photo of a small blond woman with severe bangs and far too much eye makeup on, showing off a delicately shaded armadillo on her shoulder, and another of a slender young man in dreadlocks who got a very lifelike snake, sinuous and multi-coloured, crawling up his forearm. Henry has to admit that even though he isn’t fond of the concept of tattoos, that Childermass is highly talented. 

The rattling stops, and Henry is so absorbed in looking at the photos that at first he doesn’t hear Childermass step out from behind the screen. 

“Hello Henry,” 

Childermass’ voice is low and soft, and not at all confrontational. Not what Henry expected. He turns and has to stifle a gasp. The man is wearing a sleeveless white vest that clings to his torso and a pair of tight black jeans. His hair is secured on top of his head in a messy bun and he’s glistening a little with perspiration. Henry can see dark curlicues of tattoos climbing up both of Childermass’ arms and across the top of his chest where it peaks out of the vest, and he can’t take the time to contemplate them too long, for he’s now standing, gaping at Childermass like an absolute fool. 

“Oh, hello,” he manages. “My cousin, she wants a tattoo,” he blurts out. It’s a lie he quickly cooked up for why he’s here. “Thought I’d stop by and ask what sorts of things are involved in getting one.”

“Alright,” Childermass replies. “I’m just finishing up with my customer. Take your time and look around.” He’s being very professional, which Henry finds disappointing. 

Childermass ducks back behind the screen and there’s a few more bursts of electric rattling and a muted conversation. Then a tall brunette woman in an equally clingy vest (a black one) and equally tight jeans steps out from behind the screen. She and Childermass chat, a bit too warmly for Henry’s taste, about tattoo maintenance, and when she can come back for her next installment. She’s giggling a lot and touching Childermass on the arm far too much, and Henry tries not to stare as he meanders around the shop, feeling invisible. 

The woman finally leaves, after giggling some more, and Henry feels suddenly quite nervous. They’re alone now, and they haven’t been alone since their last shag. 

“Your cousin wants a tattoo?” Childermass prompts, putting on a flannel shirt before leaning against the counter, arms crossed, looking at Henry with unreadable eyes the color of black coffee. 

“Yes, she does. I warned her against it, but she’s determined.”

“That so?” Childermass doesn’t take the bait and Henry is unsure of what to say next. 

“Yes. What do you charge for small tattoos? She’s thinking of getting one on her ankle. A flower or a heart or something like that.” 

“Well, I have lots of options, if she wants to come here that is. But even if she goes somewhere else, a small tattoo, a couple of inches across is usually between 50 to 75 pounds. The bigger they get, the more they cost. Depends on what she wants.”

“Seems expensive,” Henry sniffs. 

Childermass grunts out a sardonic laugh. “That’s wha _t I_ think of what you charge for a bouquet of flowers, so I suppose we’re even.” 

It’s Henry’s turn to ignore the slight, and he does so, because he doesn’t want to get sore and storm out. He wants to stay and keep looking at Childermass’ astounding body and handsome face. “Well, perhaps I need to learn more about your… occupation.” he offers. 

Childermass’ brows lift in apparent shock at this olive branch. But he doesn’t remark on it. Instead he tells Henry quite a bit about tattoos. The history of them, the significance of tattoos in tribal cultures, as well as their movement from being a thing only sailors and rough types engaged in to something now worn proudly by celebrities and academics and virtually everyone the world over. It’s fascinating, and Henry even allows himself to be curious, to ask some questions. Over an hour passes before he realizes it. 

“Speaking of flowers,” Childermass says, though neither of them had been, “I need to buy a bouquet or two off you to keep around the shop. People often ask for flower tattoos, and it’s useful to have a live model when I work.” 

Henry wants to remark that his flowers would lend the place some class, but he holds off, for the sake of their rare cease-fire. “Well, all you need to do is come next door and pick some out,” he says, secretly pleased. “I can make recommendations on some crowd favorites. Maybe set up an eye catching arrangement...”

Childermass smiles, a genuine, warm smile and thanks him, and Henry feels a stab of panic. What exactly is happening here?

“Well, you can... you know... come over anytime,” he says haltingly, before nodding a confused good day in Childermass’ general direction and fleeing the shop. 

Henry is plagued by thoughts of Childermass for the rest of the afternoon, and it’s highly unsettling. He puts just the right amount of yellow rosebuds into a wedding table arrangement and thinks of Childermass’ smile. He wraps up a bouquet of pale pink tulips, and rust coloured peruvian lilies in light purple crepe paper and ponders the black patterns of the tattoos on Childermass’ upper arms, wonders what it would feel like to run his fingers over them. Or maybe his tongue. 

He’s so distracted in fact that when Mrs. Pertrage shows up to collect the bouquet for her son and daughter in law’s wedding anniversary party, he’s forgotten to put it together. He apologizes profusely as he rushes about, pulling white roses and pink stargazer lilies out of buckets in the coolers that line the shop. He gets the whole thing ready inside of five minutes, but he never has lapses of memory like this, and scolds himself severely. Mrs. Pertrage is very patient with him, she’s been a loyal customer for probably ten years by now, but a slip like this is concerning to Henry, who is fastidious and well organized, even under the most stressful of situations. 

His distracted mood is not helped at all when Childermass shows up two days later. Just walks in while Henry is working on refilling his flower buckets and straightening up. He sees Childermass enter the shop and his heart starts pounding. He’s so startled by the man’s appearance that he bumps into the corner of a counter top and drops a large bundle of white orchids. He curse and bends to pick them up, feeling his face grow hot as he does so. 

Childermass rushes to help him, gathering up fallen flowers with surprisingly delicate fingertips and passing them to Henry. Their hands touch a few times in the process, and this only makes Henry’s blush deepen. What in god’s name is wrong with him? 

Finally, they get the orchids re-bundled and into their proper place in the cooler, and Henry brushes his hands on his apron and can’t quite look Childermass in the eyes. “How can I help you?” He asks, leaning on his well worn and flawless professionalism in this moment of emotional crisis. 

“I wanted to buy some flowers,” Childermass says, and there’s a hint of snark in his tone. The unspoken _of course_ , at the end of his sentence, and to Henry’s surprise, it doesn’t even make him angry. 

“Well, you’ve come to the right place. You wanted some for the shop yes? As models for flower tattoos?”

Childermass nods, and so Henry walks him through the store, telling him about the language of flowers, which ones signify which emotions, and how people used to say quite a bit with the flowers they gave each other. He warns against using roses in whatever bouquets he puts in the shop, as they are so inextricably linked with courtship and formal occasions that they’ll be at odds with the place's vibe. 

“What about black roses?” Childermass asks, and Henry, rolling his eyes at the predictability of such a request, says he can order them, but doesn’t keep them around the shop as they’re morbid, and usually only asked for by teens, and people who never grew out of their secondary school goth phase. Childermass frowns at him but doesn’t seem overly insulted. Henry is for some reason relieved at this. The minute he’d said that snobby thing about black roses, he’d regretted it. Which is in and of itself surprising.

In the end, Childermass buys three bouquets; black eyed susans, white calla lilies, violets and pink orchids. They look lovely, and Henry makes sure to tie them with black satin bows in a nod to the ‘rock and roll’ aesthetic of Childermass’ shop. Childermass huffs out a grunt of amusement at Henry’s reasoning behind the ribbons, but Henry lets it be. There’s genuine warmth behind the gentle mockery in Childermass’ eyes, and it makes a fizzing sort of heat pool in Henry’s stomach. 

There’s a moment, while they’re saying goodbye that Henry desperately wants to lean in and kiss Childermass, but then he remembers what he said after their last shag. That it wasn’t happening again. That it was over. Yes, he’d said it out of a misguided attempt at playing hard to get, but he’ll be damned if he’s the one to make the next move. He has his pride after all. Add to this the ceaseless fantasies about the other man that have made a disturbing shift from the sexual to a decidedly more sentimental nature, and he knows he is in trouble. He’s terrified of this sort of connection. Of real feelings. So he doesn’t kiss Childermass. Instead, he smiles, (too warmly he fears), and tells him to have a nice day, like he does with all his customers. Then he absolutely does not (does) stand in the open doorway of his shop and watches Childermass walk next door with longing eyes.

It seems his lust has developed into a full blown crush. He hates this, because it makes him weak, vulnerable to pain and rejection. He enjoys being the one with more power in relationships. Rarely dates anyone unless they’re besotted with him, and he… well, he likes them well enough, but not so much that he can’t keep his cool. 

His feelings for Childermass on the other hand are not cool at all. They’re rather hot, and soft and shivery and he can’t get the man out of his mind. The fact that they’ve shagged a couple of times, and that it was astoundingly good sex isn’t helping matters. Now that he’s had a taste, he wants more, and is unable to ask for it. 

He sees a possible way around having to ask, directly anyway, when the cousin, the one who wants an imaginary tattoo, announces that she’s getting married. Finally going to tie the knot with that mopey, unfashionable boyfriend of hers. She invites Henry because they still keep in touch, if infrequently, and because his family has always had an overabundance of propriety and obligation to tradition. 

He’s allowed to bring a plus one, and he knows precisely who he’d like to ask. He can play it off as if his family is _expecting_ him to bring a date, that he’s tired of looking single and having no one to talk to at dull family functions like these. He’ll make it out like Childermass will be doing him a big favor. He can say anything other than the truth, that he wants to go somewhere with Childermass in public. That he wants to pretend they hadn’t called it quits (or rather _Henry_ hadn’t called it quits), even if only for one night. 

And who knows, maybe Childermass will get swept up by the romantic vibe in the air and decide to ignore Henry’s rash words. Maybe he’ll get a bit loose from champagne consumption and snog Henry while they’re slow dancing. 

Henry shakes his head to clear it of insipid rom com fantasy tropes and walks next door. 

Surprisingly, Childermass agrees. He says it’ll be fun, asks if he should dress posh. Henry, though extremely doubtful that Childermass owns a suit that isn’t cheap and outdated, keeps these opinions to himself and thanks Childermass with a sincerity he later thinks is embarrassingly earnest. He heads back to his flat with a spring in his step. 

The day of the wedding arrives and Henry hears the shop door swing open downstairs. He double checks his appearance in the mirror and smiles contentedly. He’s decided to wear a slate gray suit and trousers, a snow white shirt, open at the collar, (no tie) so as to show off his long, pale neck, paired with a black belt and black leather Italian loafers. His hair is gelled a bit into a highly calculated look of casual messiness, and it’s bright copper colour goes well with the gray and black and white. He thinks he looks quite good actually. 

He takes the stairs down two at a time and steps into the side entrance at the back of the shop. He rounds the corner of a display shelf and stops dead when he sees Childermass. 

The man is in a black suit. Well tailored and sleek. He _is_ wearing a tie, a burgundy one, the color of a rich red wine, paired with a black shirt. His hair is swept back into a neat bun at the nape of his neck, and the small skull in his ear has been replaced by a small black gemstone stud. He looks like a hit man. He looks like John fucking Wick. It’s …. It’s… 

Childermass catches sight of Henry and his eyes go wide for a moment, then travel down the length of Henry’s body and back up to his face, which is by now burning and probably bright pink. “Wow,” he says softly. “You look… sexy.” 

“So do you,” Henry says, before he can redirect his brain toward a less damning statement. 

“Glad my outfit meets your approval,” Childermass responds with a sly grin, and Henry takes solace in the fact that while he wants to rip every stitch of the man’s clothing off and fuck him against the closest hard surface, that John Childermass is still something of a wanker. 

“Shall we?” He says, indicating the door with a nod of his head. He’d offered to drive, and since Childermass (of course) owns a motorcycle, while Henry has a plush, new sedan, Childermass accepted the offer. 

The ride is an awkward one. Henry is too preoccupied with Childermass’ body, warm and close, in the bucket seat next to him, too distracted by Childermass’ slightly ink stained, yet clean and somehow well manicured hand resting on his knee, to think of much to say. And Childermass is not a chatterbox. He seems content to stare out the window. Henry eventually puts on some music, a classical station he’s fond of, and struggles to ignore the urge to keep flicking glances in Childermass’ direction. 

They’re greeted by Henry’s mother and father at the church in the stiff, lukewarm way they always adopt when talking to their only son. “How’s the shop darling?” His mother asks, her eyes already sweeping the crowd, looking for Influential People she can cozy up to. His father says nothing, only eyes Childermass with suspicion (a thing Henry finds secretly pleasing). 

The ceremony is blessedly short, and then there’s another brief ride to the reception at the country club. Henry, after greeting and chatting with an obligatory number of relatives and family friends, ends up side by side with Childermass at the bar. Childermass has what looks like a tumbler of whiskey in his hand and Lascelles orders a Savingnon Blanc. “Thanks for coming with me,” Henry says, because he can’t handle the awkward silence any longer. 

“You’re welcome,” Childermass replies. “Your family are… how shall I put this…” he trails off, trying to be polite.

“They’re horrible,” Henry confirms. “Now you know why I needed you to come. You’re a buffer.”

“Ah. A buffer. How flattering.” 

Henry looks at Childermass, fearing he might have unknowingly insulted the man, but Childermass’ eyes are dancing with mirth. “I mean it,” he says, placing his hand on Childermass’ arm. “I really didn’t want to face this alone.” 

“What was it like, growing up around these people?” Childermass asks, and though he hasn’t been specific in the slightest, Henry knows what he means. 

“It was… I don’t know… Not fun. I was always expected to be well behaved, and uphold their precious public image. Sometimes it felt a little like they’d rather have had a well behaved lap dog than a son. When I became a florist, instead of a barrister, when I _wasted_ the money they spent on my education, I thought they’d disown me for sure. By comparison, being gay wasn’t that big a problem.”

He feels the warm, flat palm of Childermass’ hand slide across his back and briefly squeeze his shoulder before the man drops his arm back at his side. “I’m sorry,” he says. “That sounds rough.” 

Henry takes a long sip of his wine to cover for the shivers that ran through him at the feel of Childermass’ hand on his back. Above and beyond the spark he felt from Childermass’ touch, he’s never been very good at receiving empathy. Or giving it for that matter. For a moment they stand in silence. 

“My ma left when I was a wee boy,” Childermass says. “Just walked out to buy some gin and never came back.” 

Henry turns to look at him in stunned disbelief. “What about your father?” he asks, feeling a swell of pity for poor, small Childermass.

“Never knew im,” Childermass replies, shrugs and takes another swig of whiskey. “I helped raise my little sister and went to work at a young age. I muddled through, but it wasn’t fun either.”

Compared to Childermass’ story, Henry’s being raised by cold, wealthy socialites felt preposterously shallow as a reason for childhood trauma. 

“I’m not trying to one up you Henry, just so you know,” Childermass says, as if he’s read Henry’s thoughts. “Pain is pain. I suspect things were very hard on you in a way I never had to experience. I had a lot of freedom, and very little support.”

“Whereas I had a lot of support and very little freedom,” Henry says, looking contemplatively down into his wine glass. 

They’re silent again. Henry doesn’t know where to go next with the conversation, so he just sips his wine and looks out at the dance floor, which is currently full of rich people, trying to dance like poor people who have far better rhythm. 

One song ends and the next one begins. It’s “Can’t Help Falling In Love With You” by Elvis Pressley. A song that Henry particularly likes.

“Come on, let's dance,” Childermass surprises him and he barely has a chance to put his wine glass down before he’s led onto the dancefloor and into Childermass’ arms. It’s a slow dance of course, and so they don’t do more than sway back and forth with his hand on Childermass’ low back and Childermass’ hand clasped in Henry’s. An older woman from his mother’s church and her bulldog-faced husband glare at them from within a cloud of almost visible homophobia, but Henry ignores them and pulls Childermass closer. 

It’s nice. Too nice. Childermass is wearing a spicy, subtle sort of cologne, and his body is radiating heat. Henry suddenly remembers slow dancing with a boy at a bonfire party on the beach at uni. How they’d ducked behind a sand dune to sway to the music from a far off radio in someone’s car. How they’d kissed, soft and slow, hidden from the prying eyes of their classmates, next to the rushing sound of the sea. It might have been one of the last times Henry hadn’t guarded his heart with someone he was getting close to. 

Childermass isn’t some public school boy though. He’s a man. A strong, clever, beautiful one. And as they sway back and forth to the music, Henry cannot help but close his eyes and rest his forehead against Childermass’. 

He knows he’s being sentimental and exceedingly romantic, but he can’t help himself. He thought he could keep this as a once in a while shag, or even a casual friendship, but what he feels for the man in his arms is far beyond either of those things. 

The song ends and they part slowly, amid some very promising eye contact. It’s getting late and so Henry goes to make his goodbyes while Childermass visits the loo. 

“Henry?! Oh my god! I can’t believe it’s really you!” 

Henry flinches when he recognizes the voice of his… well… he can’t quite say _friend_ because Christopher Drawlight isn’t a friend exactly. He’s the son of one of Henry’s mother’s friends, and since he and Christopher were of a similar age, and both pale, effeminate boys, they were often encouraged to play with each other while their mothers drank cocktails and verbally dissected other women in their social circles together. 

“Hello Christopher,” Henry says with a minimum of warmth. He prays that he can get rid of the irritating man before Childermass returns. 

“Who is that you brought with you tonight?” Christopher draws closer to him and grips his arm, lowering his voice into the well worn stage whisper he uses when he’s about to launch into a catty comment. “He looks like some sort of organized crime boss. Really Henry, I thought you had more refined taste.” 

There are people standing nearby. Friends of his parents, his cousin’s gossipy wives, and Henry experiences a moment of panic. Christopher Drawlight excels at social homicide. So much so that he’s made a career out of it. He runs a small gossip magazine that nevertheless has a very wide circulation among bored, wealthy housewives, who of course relay everything they read to their equally bored CEO husbands. If word gets out that he brought a tattoo artist to his cousin’s wedding, it might not go well for business. His shop runs on having an impeccable reputation as a place of distinction and class. 

“Oh him?” Henry says, loudly enough so that he’s sure a few of the curious pairs of ears hovering nearby can hear him. “He’s just a friend. A charity case I brought along because he kept pestering me for attention. We’re not together or anything.” Never mind that he was just swaying back and forth in the arms of this ‘charity case’ out on the dance floor, looking like he wanted to propose marriage. His fear at drawing the wrong sort of attention from Christopher makes him say the first dismissive thing he can think of. 

He pulls his arm away from Christopher’s grasp and turns to look for Childermass, so they can leave this viper’s nest of false intentions and two faced barbs, only to see Childermass walking swiftly for the door. 

“Oh Henry, I think he heard you,” Christopher says, his face schooled in a practiced expression of dismay, while his voice is full of wicked glee. 

Henry curses under his breath and strides quickly after Childermass. He catches up to him in the car park outside the country club, grabs him by the arm. “John!” he says, “John, slow down. Wait a minute!”

Childermass whirls on him, eyes burning. “A charity case? Is that how you see me Henry? As some working class bloke who needs a pick me up? No fucking thank you.” 

Henry wants to say a hundred things, but his voice sticks in his throat as Childermass pulls his arm free and walks away toward the street. “Wait!” Henry cries after the man’s receding, black clad back. “I drove you here!”

“I’m calling a cab!” Childermass holds his glowing mobile phone above his head without stopping or turning back, and continues his stiff march away from the country club. He walks until he’s out of sight around the side of a building, leaving Henry, still gaping, standing in the carpark, feeling as if he’s just dropped a priceless crystal flower vase that’s shattered into a thousand pieces. He turns and sees a red liveried valet looking at him with round eyes. 

“Fuck off!” he yells before heading to his car. He looks for Childermass along the road, but either he’s ducked down a side street, or the cab that picked him up must have showed up very quickly, for he’s nowhere to be found. 

Weeks pass, and he doesn’t hear from Childermass. He sees him now and then when they’re both outside at the same time. Once with a bag of groceries slung over his arm. Once he’s chatting with a sexy blond bloke on the steps of his shop, and Henry feels like his heart is twisting in two at the sight of it. Childermass won’t so much as look at him, and he doesn’t dare try to reach out. He’s too frightened of being rejected. 

He knows he’s botched things up really badly. First, by telling Childermass that a sexual relationship wouldn’t work out. Then by trash talking him in front of several guests at the wedding. He’s really hammered the coffin lid on tightly this time. 

After almost a month of pining and aching and kicking himself for being the world’s biggest fool, he decides to throw himself on Childermass’ mercy. He puts together a bouquet of flowers, along with a note. The note reads simply _‘Please come talk to me. I was wrong and I’m sorry.’_

He places the bouquet and the note on Childermass’ shop doorstep early Sunday morning, rings the buzzer, and rushes back next door, hiding like a coward inside his own shop. A mere ten minutes later, Childermass is at his door, bouquet in his hands. Henry lets him in as his heart pounds wildly inside his chest. 

“Hi,” Childermass says. 

“Hi,” Henry says. 

“These are really beautiful,” Childermass says, looking down at the two dozen black roses in his hands. They’re tied with a wine red ribbon, and Henry _is_ rather pleased with how the bouquet turned out. Childermass places them carefully on a nearby countertop and turns to face Henry, hands on his hips.

“Well, I had to find some way to convince you to talk to me,” Henry replies, looking down at his feet. 

“What did you want to say?” Childermass’ voice is stern, but he doesn’t sound angry. Just tired.

“That I’ve been an idiot,” Henry says.

“I agree with that assessment,” Childermass replies. 

Henry deserves that, so he holds back the snarky reply he’d normally have made. “I didn’t mean a word of what I said at the wedding,” he says.

“Then why did you say it?” 

“Because my mother’s friend’s awful son cornered me and I just knew he was after some juicy gossip, and I didn’t want him finding out you were a tattoo artist.”

“Why? Because you’re ashamed of what I do?” An edge has crept into Childermass’ voice, and Henry feels a thrill of panic. His first instinct is to lie to avoid Childermass’ disapproval, but he’s done with lying. He wants to only tell Childermass the truth from now on.

“Honestly, yes,” he says, and watch Childermass’ soft, dark brown eyes go flinty. He rushes to explain. “Because I’d just started to admire you for your work, and I grew up being told that people who have tattoos and ride motorcycles and wear ripped clothing on purpose are low class. I panicked, alright? And after I said it, I felt horrible, because I realized that I said those things about you out of being small minded, and because it was _I_ who should have been ashamed of myself, rather than ashamed of you.”

Childermass hasn’t turned around to walk out yet, so Henry continues. “I _do_ respect what you do. I see now that you’re an artist, and a very talented one. And that I’ve been a horrible snob. But I was _raised that way_. It’s going to take me a few minutes to work on forty years of bloody awful, pompous, judgmental bollocks fed to me by everyone around me for fucking decades. But you didn’t know any of that, not really, and so I’m sorry.”

“I _did_ know.” Childermass says, and Henry blinks in confusion. “I knew you were a snob before you ever spoke a word to me,” Childermass continues. His voice though, isn’t sharp or harsh. In fact he sounds a bit… fond? “I liked that about you. Made me want to try and take you down a peg. You know. By taking your clothes off.” Childermass grins a wolfish grin and Henry feels his knees threaten to buckle. 

“Really?” He asks. 

“Yes, really. I actually think you being a posh, public school snob is pretty sexy,” Childermass continues. “I just convinced myself it was an act. Or that eventually you’d warm up. And you _did_ warm up. A lot.”

“About that night, when we-”

“Just shut up for a minute,” Childermass interrupts him, and Henry obediently closes his mouth. 

"You warmed up a lot, and it was really good. But I kept my distance, just in case you’d turn on me. Get cold or push me away again. And at the wedding, it felt like that’s exactly what you did. So I panicked and I fled. I should have stayed and talked it out with you, but I didn’t want to be right about you.”

“I should never have told you it was over… you know... sexually,” Henry says. “I didn’t want to stop the physical stuff. I was just… also afraid, I guess. I’m not good at..” he waves his hand back and forth between them. “Whatever this is.” 

“So, you’re not going to be a prick anymore?” Childermass asks, warmth bubbling beneath his words, removing the sting.

“I can’t make any promises. I’m sort of a professional at it,” Henry says, grinning now. 

Childermass steps closer, and Henry’s grin evaporates as he feels Childermass’ hands slide around his waist. “So… you didn’t mean it when you told me sex was off the table huh?” He asks, his eyes fixed on Henry’s mouth in a very distracting manner. 

“I didn’t at all,” Henry breathes, as Childermass’ body presses warmly against his, and Childermass bends his head.

“Good,” Childermass says in the split second before their lips touch.

It’s much different this time. They take their clothes off, socks and all. Childermass’ tattoos are beautiful. Flocks of ravens, black feathers, and intricate designs that crawl up both arms in a dark profusion of fascinating shapes and shades of black and gray against his white skin. His chest and stomach are free of tattoos, but he has a massive raven, wings spread, across his back. It’s very sexy, and Henry tells him so as he spends some time kissing the ink on Childermass’ skin and stroking his hands over the designs, like he’s dreamed of doing for weeks now. 

This time, it’s not a mad rush toward orgasm, but a slow, soft discovery. Childermass kisses Henry’s cheeks and his chin and the tip of his nose and tells him how very pretty he is and he cradles the back of Henry’s head when he licks into his mouth and sucks at his lips, like he’s something precious and breakable. They spend a long time kissing, and touching, stroking fingers down arms and across backs and trying to feel as much of each other as possible. 

This time, they actually talk about safe sex and Childermass says he’s been tested and Henry says he has too. This time, Childermass doesn’t rush anything, and neither does Henry. The motion of Childermass’ fingers inside him are steady and slow and devastating as he’s carefully worked open. Childermass doesn’t fuck Henry until Henry is writhing and gasping and cursing at him to do it. And oh, that part is different too. 

This time, Childermass is above him, supporting his weight on those beautiful, raven covered arms, looking down into Henry’s eyes as he fucks him, nice and slow. Henry is clinging to him, legs wrapped around him, kissing his neck, begging breathlessly for more, telling Childermass how beautiful he is. 

Childermass lets Henry drag him down into his arms and fucks him even more slowly while they kiss and whisper desperate, hot things to each other. Finally, Henry can’t take it anymore and he pushes Childermass off him just a bit so he can take himself in hand and Childermass rears up onto his knees and fucks Henry so hard and so good. They come seconds apart, eyes locked, and it’s … well… It's unlike anything Henry’s ever experienced. He’s in love. He must be. There isn’t enough of his body to contain what he feels, and so it starts leaking out of his eyes. 

“You’re crying. Are you alreet?” Childermass is touching the dampness on Henry’s cheeks and looking worried, and Henry shakes his head.

“No, I’m fine. 

“I didn’t hurt you did I?”

“No, no, you didn’t at all. I’m just… feeling a little overwhelmed.”

Childermass smiles softly. “It’s my cock isn’t it? I’ve been told it can be a bit much for the newly initiated.” 

Henry smiles and slaps him playfully on the arm. The joke helps to lighten the mood. “That’s precisely it,” he says. “It was your godlike prick. My arse has now been sainted.”

“In all seriousness, are you unhappy Henry?” Childermass has Henry’s face in both of his hands and is peering at him with eyes that are far too soft and caring. Henry sniffles and a fresh spate of tears spill out. 

“I just… I… it’s a lot. That’s all.”

Childermass thankfully doesn’t ask him what he means. Instead, he delicately separates their bodies and reaches for a roll of paper towel to help them both clean up. Then he settles back in bed and gathers Henry to him. He wraps his arms and legs around Henry and nuzzles his face into the crook of Henry’s neck and kisses him there. “I understand,” he says. “I feel it too.” 

They rest there, for a long time. Eventually, Henry drifts off, waking up in the early hours of the morning so that he can kiss Childermass awake and make love to him a second time. Then, back to sleep in the exhausted aftermath, still wrapped in Childermass’ embrace. 

And just like that, they’re dating. Solidly. Boyfriend and boyfriend dating. It’s effortless, and astoundingly enjoyable. They go to the cinema and hold hands. They send each other nauseatingly adorable text messages. A year into it, Henry even asks for a small, black raven feather tattoo on his low belly, near his hip. For some reason, Childermass enjoys coming on it, and wouldn’t you know it, Henry starts to like that too. 

Childermass sends customers Henry’s way and Henry sends customers to Childermass (wealthy, adult children of stuck up parents who want to make a stir by getting a tattoo to shock their family mostly). 

It’s lovely. It’s thrilling, and every day, when he leaves to run errands, or walks over to Childermass’ so they can have lunch, or even when he walks out to get the morning’s paper, he gives Childermass’ trash bins a small pat and sends up a prayer of thanks for the ugly smelly things. Without them, who knows how this would have gone…


End file.
